


Here I Love You

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: And a bit of tumblr, Angst and Humor, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Inspired by Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 07:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20422109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: This is a club. A grown-up club. With men, and a bar, and jarringly loud music. How the hell did Rose get into a club like this? Rose is sixteen; she should be studying, should be asleep. She shouldn’t be in a halter top, shouldn’t be holding a cocktail, shouldn’t be talking to the Doctor.Definitelyshouldn’t be talking to the Doctor.Or maybe it’s the Doctor that definitely shouldn’t be talking to Rose.





	Here I Love You

**Author's Note:**

> _Disclaimer:_ Nope.
> 
> _Author’s Note:_ Someone tell my brain that I don’t have time to write fanfics anymore. 
> 
> This was inspired by two poems, both of which get referenced here. Obvious one is obvious and is named in-text. Slightly less obvious one is “Here I Love You” by Pablo Neruda. Both are very Doctor x Rose. 
> 
> _Warnings:_ Written, edited, and posted all in one day. I have seen a grand total of 0 of Thirteen’s episodes. I am absolutely certain that every one of these ideas has either been contested by canon, or written better by someone else.
> 
> Anyway, here we go.

_1\. Here I love you // Days, all one kind, go chasing each other_

It is a day like any other.

Which is to say, it is a day unique unto itself. 

There is a crisis, of course— there is always a crisis— and as the TARDIS somersaults into the polychromatic nihility that is the Vortex, Rose is almost surprised to discover that today’s is shaping up to be the rare internal sort.

“Variety is the spice of life, yeah?” she jokes, tongue between her teeth as the ol’ girl spits stars. She can hardly hear herself over the collapsar roar of rebellious mechanics. The console floor winks like a galaxy. The Doctor grins.

His reply is a sound like bells.

X

“So. I take it that the translation software is down,” Rose deduces not-very-long later, following a series of increasingly confused and crystalline noises from the Doctor.

He cocks his head, brow furrowed. Strange, really, that it is only now occurring to Rose that the Doctor might not actually be able to speak English. That he has _never_ been able to speak English. She tries not to linger on the myriad of things that this implies. There are better uses of her energies. 

Like charades.

X

Apparently, charades enjoys intergalactic popularity.

As does Pictionary. 

This information is useful, hilarious, and distracting, in exactly that order. 

They get around to repairs eventually.

X

“I guess,” Rose says— mostly to herself— as she lounges on the grate nearest to the TARDIS’ helm, “that if you or I had anything we wanted to… you know… get off our chests, so to speak, now would be the time to do it, wouldn’t it?”

She doesn’t expect an answer to this. Obviously. Considering the day’s events. But also because the Doctor is already mid-ramble, voicing a series of chime-sweet syllables that Rose wouldn’t have been able to understand even _if_ he wasn’t currently half-tunneled beneath the time rotor. It sounds jovial enough, though, whatever it is he’s talking about, despite every-other word being punctuated by the harsh snap of broken electrical wires.

“Course,” Rose continues, “you could’ve been doing exactly that for the past hour, couldn’t you? Babbling your deepest, darkest secrets. A gob is a gob, huh?” 

Although she’d aimed for “sardonic” when speaking— she really, truly had— Rose is a terrible shot; her quip lands somewhere far closer to “fond,” and really, she has to wonder why she isn’t more annoyed or panicked about this whole situation. 

Something about body language, maybe. Or universalities. 

(Or epiphanies.)

“Actually,” she realizes, “I don’t think there’s anything I could say now that I wouldn’t… you know… say to you when you could understand me. That’s a bit wild, isn’t it?” 

As if in answer, the Doctor’s rump begins to wiggle; a beat, and his head pops up in front of Rose, crowned in a spaghetti tangle of wires and a tile. 

“_Arkytior_,” he sings. Well, not sings. Not really. But Gallifreyan rings in Rose’s ears like a song, and whatever that word is, it seems to be his favorite lyric. That, and whatever he croons right after it. 

Rose smiles.

And she thinks she understands. 

_2\. The snow unfurls in dancing figures // High, high stars_

“‘_To the moon and back_’?” the Doctor reads off of the pendant, mortified. Offended. “The _moon_? Earth’s moon, _that_ moon, which is a measly 384,400 kilometers from the planet?!”

“And back,” Rose reminds, wryly amused. Though the look she shoots their personal shopping assistant is mollifying, it is not enough to counteract the PTSD that the girl has undoubtedly developed over the course of the holiday season; the poor thing trembles before the snarky Vitex heiress and her highly indignant partner. “That’s a 768,800 kilometer trip in total, Doctor. Not too shabby.” 

“Rose Tyler!” her affronted Doctor gasps, hand leaping to his single heart. He says her name with an accent now, faint but silvery. “After all we’ve been through, all we’ve done, everywhere— every-_when_— we’ve traveled, how could you _possibly_ be impressed by such a— such a _paltry_ offering?! The _moon_. The moon! What’s the _moon_ to— to Mars? To Woman Wept? To Barcelona?! Why, I’d take you to the ends of the _universe_ to—actually, wait, no, _nope_, scratch that, been there, s’not fun—”

“_Doctor_,” Rose mutters, with another glance at their distressed assistant. This one is for the Doctor’s benefit. It is also far less kind. 

“I’m just saying, Rose—”

“Say it later,” Rose rolls her eyes, dragging her husband away from the jewelry display. Then from a stand of large plush bananas. Finally, out of this world’s version of Hendrik’s, much to their assistant’s palpable relief.

Whatever the universe, night falls early in late December; it is only five o’clock, but those stars that remain are already aglow. In the light-spangled blackness, a band is playing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” to a small but delighted crowd. 

Briefly, _viscerally_, the song surprises Rose; in a poignant rush, she remembers another time, another life, another—

“Rose?”

The Doctor is squeezing her hand. 

(_Body language,_ she thinks, unbidden. _Universalities._) 

“It’s later,” he whispers, each word as soft as snow. It has begun to fall again, pristine and puffy, catching in his hair, in his lashes. “Can I say it now, Rose? Please?” 

Proper snow. Proper Christmas. Proper Doctor.

“I never want to stop saying it, Rose.”

There is no moon tonight, but if there were, his eyes would surely eclipse it. What burns behind them shines so much _brighter_.

“Rose Tyler, I—”

She kisses him, tasting the confession where it lives on his tongue. 

_3\. This is a port // Here I love you _

Time is infinite. Life is finite. 

It is hard to remember that, sometimes. 

“You look sad.” 

This is a club. A grown-up club. With men, and a bar, and jarringly loud music. How the hell did Rose get into a club like this? Rose is sixteen; she should be studying, should be asleep. She shouldn’t be in a halter top, shouldn’t be holding a cocktail, shouldn’t be talking to the Doctor. 

_Definitely_ shouldn’t be talking to the Doctor. 

Or maybe it’s the Doctor that definitely shouldn’t be talking to Rose. 

“I…” 

“Budge over,” says Rose, young Rose, little Rose, _a Rose-bud_, the Doctor thinks madly, miserably, _desperately_, scooting down the uncomfortably chic bench to give Rose enough room to place her miniskirted bottom. The cocktail is pressed into the Doctor’s listless hand. “Here. You all right? We girls gotta look out for one another, yeah? I’m not gonna leave you sitting here like this. ‘Specially not when you look so. I dunno. Distraught.” 

(_Body language,_ a different “she” thinks, still unbidden. _Universalities._) 

“I—” the Doctor chokes, unsure what to say when she can’t say what she wants to. She swallows, if only to physically reshape the sounds in her mouth. “I… didn’t order this. The drink, I mean. And I. Can’t pay.” 

“You don’t have to,” Rose assures, waving off the Doctor’s concerns. There’s glitter dusted beside her eyes, a vibrant and sparkling gold. Music howls through the halls. Something about wolves. “I’m paying it forward. Didja ever see that movie? Yeah? Well, would you believe that I lost my wallet earlier today? Found out at the chippie. Real embarrassing, had already ordered— but then this grouchy looking Scottish sweetheart pays for my chips! An’ later, a bloke in a bowtie returns my wallet, money and all. Said he saw me drop it as I left the estate. Then, oh, _then,_ this really—! Ah, but. Well. Never mind,” Rose cuts herself off, sheepishly shaking her head. A flurry of glitter flakes onto the Doctor’s arm. “You don’t need to hear my life’s story, do you? I just… All that’s to say that I wanna do my part, too. You know? To make someone’s day a bit brighter.” 

“Yeah?” 

Carefully, deliberately, the Doctor takes a sip of the cocktail. It’s a Juliet and Romeo. Made with rose water. 

She picks out the mint. 

“Tell you what,” the Doctor says, because she can’t _not_ say something, “I bet—I just bet— that you make _everyone’s_ days brighter. A girl like you? I bet you’re someone’s pink-and-yellow sunshine.”

Rose blushes a color that would make her namesake proud. 

But she isn’t distracted by flattery, because she never is. 

Was. 

_Is._

“D’you… wanna talk about it?” 

“About what?” the Doctor asks, deliberately dense. Always, always deliberately. Always, always a coward. Always, always weak. 

“Why you’re so sad,” Rose prompts, nudging companionably at the Doctor’s shoulder. More glitter falls, like stardust. She makes a wish on it, hoping that it sticks to her jacket eternally. “Was it a boy? Is he here? Need me to beat someone up for you?” 

Despite herself, the Doctor snorts. Does it right into her alcohol, and it burns, _shit_, but that’s good. It’s good. She takes a moment to savor the pain. A pain that— for once— feels a safe distance from her hearts. 

“Not a boy,” she corrects, grinning wearily. “A girl. A… friend of mine. We were together.”

“‘Together?’” Rose’s frown isn’t judgmental. It _is_ sympathetic. “Did you two…?”

“She died.” 

That frown cracks, breaking along the seam of her lips. The Doctor catches a glimpse of teeth, of tongue, and has to fight the strange urge to cackle.

“Yup. I just got… er. Word. As it were,” the Doctor adds, correcting herself in the last second. She wets dry lips with gin. “It’s hard to explain. I’m away. A lot. Hard to reach. Impossible, really. But I’d get these— I suppose you’d call them— updates? From her… husband. You could say we’re twins, her husband and me. And so we have— had— this sort of… you know… twin telepathy… and… well…” 

She allows the explanation to trail, fully aware how ridiculous she sounds. Not that it matters, really; doesn’t she always sound ridiculous? Isn’t sounding ridiculous part of what makes her the Doctor? 

Rose isn’t looking at her like she’s ridiculous.

“I’m sorry,” young Rose whispers, placing a tender, warm, _living_ hand upon the Doctor’s wrist. God, her pulse is so _strong._ “I’m so sorry. Was she… you know… sick? Or—”

“Sick? Oh, no! No, see, that’s the brilliant thing!” the Doctor chirps, sing-song and smiling and _sobbing_— _what?_— oh no, _no_, oh, _hell_, she can feel the tears, they are already slipping down her stinging, rictus cheeks, but she can’t stop, _can’t stop_, can’t stop any of this, “She lived t-to be a ripe old age! Can you believe it? Ancient, practically! She g-got to grow old and die a wrinkly, happy old lady! And I’ll— I’ll never get to see her again, not ever!” the Doctor explains, cheerful, _weeping_, the taste of her own tears washing away the liquor that lingers in the corners of her mouth, “Never _ever_, because t-this is it! The last day! There’s no more timeline that can be interfered with, and I— I keep telling myself, I keep saying, _You can’t keep looking at the past through Rose-colored glasses_, but— How can I _not?_ How can I _not,_ dammit?! The compass roses on maps, the rose windows in ancient architecture, the rose galaxies in the constellation Andromeda— restaurant names, hidden gardens, pet-_fucking_-cats— they all go back to y— _her_! For God’s sake, _look at me,_” the Doctor laughs, wild and mirthless, wrenching at her own blonde hair. “I turn everyone I meet, everyone I care about, into a part of me, but _you_— oh, you’re like a _weed_, overgrown and taking over everything I am, but it’s _not_ enough, it’s still not _enough_, will _never_ be enough, how could it _ever_ be enough, when you promised me forever?!” 

Furious, the Doctor slams back the rest of her drink, glowering at the distorted reflection that rings the empty glass. 

_‘Distorted reflection,’_ the Doctor repeats to herself, of herself. _Yeah, that’s fitting._ She tries to focus on the table. 

It doesn’t help. 

The Juliet and Romeo had left a perfect, unbroken circle atop its napkin. It looks like one of Rose’s earrings. Or emptiness. Or something unfinished, something unsaid— something half-written in Gallifreyan, and the Doctor wonders if Rose can hear her accent until Rose picks up the napkin and twists it, thoughtful. 

“You know,” young Rose declares, apropos of nothing, “I’m not great in school.” Her chuckle is more self-disparaging than the Doctor is used to hearing from anyone other than herself, and it catches her off-guard. “But there’s this poem we read in class the other day. I laughed at first, ‘cause the author’s name is E. E. _Cummings_ and— _c’mon,_ right? But… it’s really lovely. An’ I think maybe you’d like it, if you read it. Or heard it. I remember some of it. Though I can’t say I’d perform it well…”

The Doctor makes a noise that even she has a difficult time deciphering. She thinks it sounds encouraging, though. 

Rose apparently thinks the same.

“_here is the deepest secret nobody knows_,” she begins, a bit shyly, a little slowly, and yes, she’s right, she’s not particularly skilled at poetic recitation, but— “_(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud_  
_and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows_  
_higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)_  
_and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart_—” 

“_i carry your heart_,” the Doctor whispers. “_(i carry it in my heart)._”

Rose’s smile is stunning in all the ways that foreshadowing is. “That’s a kind of forever, isn’t it?” she reasons. 

For a minute— an impossibly long, _endless_ minute—, the Doctor does not speak. Cannot speak. Then: 

“Her name was Rose,” she blurts. 

Rose’s laugh is so gentle, so kind, that it hurts. “I figured,” she admits, nodding as if to reference the Doctor’s earlier ravings. “D’you know, that’s my name, too?”

(_I do. Oh, God, Rose Tyler, I do. There is so_ much _that I know— about you, about_ us, _about everything that is or was or ever shall be but that’s not the real question, is it? No. No, the real question—oh, Rose, the_ real _question—is if_ you _know. Do you know, Rose? Do you know that I—_) 

“I love you,” the Doctor breathes, a slip that she will blame on the drink if she must. When she must. “My Rose. I mean. I _love_ her.” 

And oh. _Oh,_ there’s that tongue. That tongue, and those teeth, and that smile.

_That smile._

Then Rose— the Doctor’s brilliant, beautiful, beloved Rose— giggles and tells her, “Quite right, too.”

XXX


End file.
